


monsters are always hungry, darling

by Duckyboos



Series: i only come when you scream [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Barebacking, Bottom Dean Winchester, Comeplay, M/M, MeetCute, Murder Husbands, Sam Winchester Loves Magic: The Gathering, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Sex, Snark, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Traditional Love Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean just wants to be noticed.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: i only come when you scream [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/931293
Comments: 34
Kudos: 352





	monsters are always hungry, darling

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I get that it's kinda been a while since I last posted anything and for that I genuinely am sorry. I suck. I know.  
> The last thing I posted was in June 2018. Since then I've graduated from my undergrad degree, started a masters, completed and graduated from that masters, and started a PhD. It's been a bit of a mad 18 months to say the least. However, this series is one of my absolute favourites and I have so many ideas that simply will not fuck off, so I felt the need to procrastinate and here I am!
> 
> This one is set pretty much straight after the flashback bits in _now you're just a stranger with all my secrets_. Essentially, this is Cas and Dean's second meeting.
> 
> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and everything. I do check in intermittently and they always make me smile. 
> 
> Also, for those who are interested in the timeline of this series ('cause I realise that it's been a long time and these stories flit back and forth) I've written a short summary of times and stuff at the end. It's for me as much as anyone else!

“So then, he’s all ‘ _ Sam, that’s not how you use Ancestral Recall _ ’ and I was all like--”

Dean’s head hurts. 

He’s in misery, pure and simple. And not just because his adult-age brother is obsessed with some kind of Uno for nerds. No, it’s because of his damn traitorous heart beating exclusively for some unfairly handsome bastard who has a classic car, enjoys a bit of Dolly Parton unironically, and is an accomplished serial killer.

(That last one is less of a problem and more of a driving force).

Dean’s  _ actual  _ problem is that love is for losers and people who are too afraid to be alone. 

_ So, Dean then.  _

This truly is a problem. However, Dean is not a problem solver. He's only really good for fighting and killing, not problem solving, unless the problem is a fight or somebody needs a killin’.

He sighs like the lovesick, barely-not-teenager that he is.

“--But Billy won’t listen to me. So I told him that we should settle this man-to-man--”

Dean’s brain catches on a snag in the one-sided conversation. “ _ Man to man _ ? Really? You’re eighteen and squabbling over Mage cards or what-the-fuck ever. Not sure you’ve really earned any  _ man _ credit yet.”

It’s not particularly fair; Sam’s a mostly functioning adult man in all the ways that count, but he’s fucking off to college soon so Dean’s only got limited time left in which to act like the superior brother that he so obviously is. He’s making the most of it.

“What’s with you anyways?” Sam asks, cheap motel bed creaking as he shifts his (not inconsiderable) weight to face Dean, who’s cleaning his weapons (currently his favorite Bowie knife) at the pockmarked table.

Years from now, he’ll probably look back at this vignette as an indictment of their relationship.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s with me?’” 

Sam’s hair is Backstreet Boy length and Dean will never ever stop making fun of him for it. With an annoyed jerk of Sam’s head, it slants across his eyes in a way that has Dean’s fingers itching for a pair of scissors. “Exactly what I said, Dean. What crawled up your ass and died?”

Sadly, Dean’s go-to response of ‘your momma’ isn’t really acceptable when you share a mother (albeit a dead one, which ironically fits in nicely with second part of Sam's question), so Dean just shrugs, focussing on a particularly stubborn speck of oxidized blood crusted into the metal of his blade, the deep color of rust, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Dean hates lying to Sam, so he tacks on a sigh and, “The hunt was a bit of a bitch is all. Ended up making a fool of myself.” It’s both close enough and far away from the truth to hopefully satisfy Sam’s incessant need to know Dean’s every move and to soothe Dean’s conscience at least a little bit. 

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks, far too smug for someone who was just wholeheartedly bitching about dragons and shit. “What happened? You get outsmarted by a deer or something?”

Smartass.

“Nah.” Dean mutters, “Just didn’t work out how I’d hoped that’s all.”

By ‘not working out how he’d hoped’ he means that he missed out on getting fucked by the the most gorgeous guy he’s ever seen. Making it the understatement of the century.

Sam looks oddly disappointed. “Oh, right.”

“Yeah.” Dean says.

And that’s the end of that conversation. 

  
  


***

  
  


Nearly six weeks later, Dean gets his name.

**_The Highway Butcher._ **

Which is pretty lame and kinda grammatically ambiguous. Like, does he butcher highways or what? 

Of course, Sammy is fascinated by the new serial killer that’s apparently haunting all the same highways that they’ve conveniently been travelling and Dean - for the umpteenth time - wonders just how stringent those Stanford entry requirements are if this is the caliber of their law students.

Obviously, Dean’s grateful for Sam’s ignorance too, but still. No wonder there’s so many miscarriages of justice in this country. 

Sam idly flicks through the news channels, leaving Dean in peace to wonder whether the Reaper will recognize Dean as the one behind the moniker.

***

He receives his answer five days later.

The bar is some kind of hole-in-the-wall place that would have once had sawdust on the floor to soak up bodily fluids, and Dean doesn’t want to think too hard about why the soles of his boots stick-release to the old planks of dull wood now that it doesn’t. The music is too loud, the place smells like sweat, and the air is heavy with a greasy kind of miasma, tainted red by the neon glow outside. 

It’s convenient though; just ten minutes from the fleabitten motel Dean’s staying in off of the I-70. Sam’s back at the previous motel, duffel bag already packed and ready to go. Not able to face him, Dean’s been away for two days. He doesn’t want Sam to leave, but there’s no way that his brother can stay and Dean can continue with his  _ Butchering _ . At least this way, Sam’s going to live the life that he should and Dean’s...well… Dean’s going to keep on keepin’ on. 

_...Butchering. _

Currently, Dean’s hunched on a stool, elbows on the bar. He’s nursing his whisky on the rocks, watching the ice slowly disintegrate. It’s his sixth tonight, and he’s got no plans for stopping until he’s well into double figures. 

Story of his life.

Someone slides onto the vacant stool next to him, body hot and dark-scented, and Dean doesn’t bother himself with finding out who has decided to come hit on the lonely stranger at the bar (which of course they have; there’s plenty of room in this place, so the only reason to get this close to someone, is to, well… _ get this close to someone _ .)

There’s nothing for several long minutes, merely an expectant silence, before a voice that’s rough in just the right way, all anise and wormwood, finally says, “Hello, Dean.”

Of course, it’s a lot easier to ignore someone hitting on you, when that person hasn’t been the sole star of your masturbatory fantasies for the best part of a month and a half now. 

Heart stuttering in his chest, whisky in his veins, Dean lifts his head and turns to look. 

It’s him. For real. The Reaper.

And he’s just as perfect as Dean remembers him. Maybe more so. Those eyes, that mouth. Fuck, Dean doesn’t know where to attempt to hazily focus. 

“Err, h-hey --” He eventually manages to stutter out, not really sure of the protocol here, can’t exactly call him Mr Reaper.

“Castiel.” The Reaper looks amused, blue eyes glittering with mirth. “My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel.” Dean repeats. Huh. He looks more like a god than an angel. “Nice to meet you, Cas. Err, officially and all.”

At the nickname, Castiel does that squinty-eyed thing he’d done back in the forest, like he’s trying to figure Dean out. It’s still hot.

Dean clears his throat, looks down at his drink. Alcohol - the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems. “So uh, what are you doing here, Cas-- _ tiel _ ?” He downs it in one, mostly-melted shards of ice and all. Waves a hand to get the bartender's attention from where she’s flirting with a patron at the other end of the bar. 

“Just passing through.” Castiel murmurs low and molten, and Dean can physically feel the weight of his gaze on him, just this side of too heavy. He’s not sure what all this means, where it’s going, but it’s not gonna be anywhere good and he can’t fucking wait.

Dean turns back to him then, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, heat pooling low in his stomach as he watches Castiel watch him. “Yeah? Something in particular catch your eye that make you stop in this shithole?”

“You could say that.” Castiel clearly wants to expand on that thought - as does Dean - but the barmaid chooses that moment to do her job and looks between them expectantly, a little impatient that they’re not immediately ready to set her to task. Before Dean can ask for the entire bottle for liquid courage, Castiel is jumping in, ordering the same again for Dean and a double bourbon for himself. 

Because of course.

Dean pretends to focus his attention to the barmaid as she reaches for the top shelf bourbon, praying to Satan or Ted Bundy or whoever it is that serial killers are supposed to pray to, that the crappy lighting in this place is dim enough to mask the rising warmth in his cheeks as Castiel stares steadily at him, like there’s nothing else in this world that he’d rather gawk at. 

Dean’s heartbeat steadily counts the seconds as they pass in increasingly restless silence, tension coiling tighter and tighter, with the words he wants to say catching in his throat and staying there. He wants to be witty, knows himself capable of being whip-smart and sharp-tongued, but in this situation, he feels completely outmatched. ‘Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt’, and all that shit.

So, with their drinks eventually paid for and placed in front of them - all without Castiel’s knowing, expectant gaze leaving the side of Dean’s face - Dean concentrates on not making an ass out of himself. 

They drink in a companionable - if restive - silence for a while. The jukebox cycles through songs, from Alannah Myles, through to Bruce Springsteen and it’s playing Judas Priest when Castiel finally speaks again.

“So seventeen, huh?”

It takes a moment, but not a long one, because it’s never really far from his mind. 

“Eighteen now.” Dean answers around a rough swallow of whisky. It burns its way down the back of his throat; a trail of fire that he desperately tries to play off by immediately following it with another sip. It results in a coughing fit that sees the broad palm of Castiel’s right hand rubbing soothing circles through the leather of Dean’s permanently-borrowed leather jacket.

He can feel the warmth bleeding through and settling in his bones. “What's that - one for every year you've been alive?” 

Cheeky fuck.

“Dude.” Dean mutters, affronted. He angles his body a little towards Castiel, but still can’t quite bring himself to keep his eyes on the attractive fucker’s face longer than it takes to tack on, “I'm twenty-two.”

“My bad.” Castiel removes his palm and holds it up along with his left in the universal sign for surrender. He picks up his drink, swirls the ice around, drains the contents. Then, with a slanted look like he knows it’s gonna cause trouble, adds casually, “I’d just killed a few more by the time I was your age, that’s all.”

And then he turns away to summon the bartender again, like he didn’t just completely disarm Dean whilst simultaneously throwing down the gauntlet.

Not fair.

“Oh yeah?” Dean says and it is so  _ on _ . “What did you say last time we met? You’re on thirty seven? And you’re like forty years old, right? Boy, that mid-life crisis must have hit you hard, dude, made you slow down quite a bit, eh?” He pauses as if in thought, “Hmm. What  _ do  _ serial killers do in their midlife crisis by the way? Just give me a clue, so I know what to look forward to in twenty years time.” Dean stops again, widens his eyes comically, “Wait. It’s not hitting on twenty-somethings in bars is it? Am  _ I  _ your mid-life crisis, Castiel?”

Throughout Dean’s tirade, Castiel’s expression remains mostly impassive, except for a small twitch of a smile at the end. 

Castiel orders the same again and once the bartender goes to make them their drinks, he’s sliding off the stool and into Dean’s space, long-lined grace of his body half-leaning against the bar, wholly leaning into Dean. “Dude.” he mocks, a perfect rendition of Dean’s affrontery earlier, only an octave lower, “I’m twenty-eight.” 

This close Dean can smell the baked-in scent of the earth and pine in Castiel’s clothes, in his hair.

The bartender deposits the drinks, plucks the bill offered from between Castiel’s thumb and forefinger. Neither of them pay her any mind, nothing but a shared heartbeat and filthy-hot intent between them. “Hush your lies. You are not twenty-fucking-eight.”

“Scout’s honor.” Castiel says, holding up the three fingered salute. 

“You were never a boy scout.”

“Sure I was. First in my troop to get the crime prevention merit badge too.”

Dean can’t help it. He laughs. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

“Eh.” Castiel lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’d like to think that I’ve made my Scout leader proud; I killed a burglar once.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says drily, trying to ignore just how broad that aforementioned shoulder is. “You’re totally doing God’s work there, Castiel.”

Castiel’s answering smile is pitch black, alluring and beautifully terrifying all in one, “I’d like to think so. Old testament God at least. All that fire and brimstone, death and destruction. So much more interesting than all of the peace and forgiveness shit.”

Yeah because Dean needed another reason to fall in love with this perfect asshole.

Dean elects to keep quiet, lest he let his adoration spill out like a goddamn oil slick. Instead, he takes another large gulp of his drink and flicks through all of his conversation starters that don’t begin with, “wanna” and end with “fuck?”

It’s (un)surprisingly sparse.

After a few tense moments, he feels the unyielding strength of Castiel’s body as he closes the imperceptible inch between them so that they’re chest to chest, Castiel claiming Dean’s space for his own, and then he’s speaking in a timbre that makes all of the blood in Dean’s body rush to his cock so fast that it makes him feel woozy, “Your silence is utterly provocative, you know.”

And but fuck, if Castiel isn’t edgy and dangerous and just about the sexiest thing that Dean has ever seen. 

Dean wants. Has never wanted anything more.

“Yeah?” Dean says, shifting his weight, meeting dark eyes, mere millimeters separating their faces, their lips, their tongues. He grins dirty-slow, drinking in every second of Castiel’s heavy-lidded stare. “How provocative are we talking here? Like,  _ People v Berry _ provocative or….?”

Castiel makes a wounded sound; the result of Dean’s shot in the dark hitting the intended mark and Dean can’t believe that they’re still standing here, breathing each other's air, pressed so close together that he can feel Cas’ heartbeat through the throb of his dick. 

“Fuck,” Castiel breathes against Dean’s mouth, and Dean couldn’t actually agree more. And just as Dean’s about to close that final millimeter and taste the bourbon on Castiel’s tongue, the asshole pulls back, taking all that hardness and heat away, as he puts distance between the two of them. “This isn’t a good idea.” Castiel says, weighted gaze on Dean, leaden with meaning, making it difficult for Dean to catch enough air. He’s never really been  _ seen _ like this before and it’s making the mutual - ‘cause yeah, like fuck this isn’t mutual - need and want a tangible, living, breathing thing between them.

Normally, Dean knows when to quit, but there’s nothing normal about this. Instead, a tactical retreat, “You're kind of a dick, y’know.”

Castiel manages a breathy laugh, looking a little wild. “I kill people, it's a job requirement.”

A fair point.

Dean downs the rest of his drink, deliberate and overtly sexual as he licks the amber liquid off his bottom lip. “You sure you can’t?”

“No.” Castiel answers immediately. 

Dean cocks his hip against the bar, impatient now. “No you’re not sure or no you can’t?”

Castiel necks his bourbon, slams the tumbler down on the bar. Swallows hard. “This,” He gestures between them, “Is dangerous.” 

Which is part of the fun as Dean’s concerned. He’s about to say so when Castiel continues, “I don’t trust myself around you. I --”

And suddenly Dean gets it. 

“--You think that you’re the only one who wants this so bad that they haven’t been able to think about anything else for the last six weeks?” 

Castiel’s smile is jagged around the edges. “Something like that, yeah.”

Something like that, indeed. 

“I mean,” Dean starts, closing the distance between them again. “If it makes you feel better,” he trips his fingertips down the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, silky soft, and Dean can’t wait to get at the skin underneath, “we can reenact those thoughts, if you want…” He jerks his hand away, pretends to consider the alternative, “of course if you don’t --”

He sees it the exact moment that Castiel surrenders.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  
  


***

  
  


There have been entire institutions built on the backs of serial killers. Jobs materialized out of nothing but the need to know  _ why _ \- why do people, who in many other scenarios are law-abiding, socially acceptable human beings, kill multiple strangers in gruesome ways? Is it the adventure of searching out victims? The thrill of the hunt? The headrush of the actual kill? Or are some people just irreparably fucked up?

They’re certainly contributing factors as far as Dean’s concerned, but all pale in comparison to the main rationale; the experience of possessing another human being - of owning them so completely. Feeling their heartbeat in your hands, watching them take their last breath. Being responsible for their pain, their suffering.

It’s why Dean’s always been such a hedonist - sex, food, booze - all sweet pleasure to the sourness of pain. A little of both keeps life interesting, but balancing the two is a vocation few take seriously or to the extremes that people such as Dean and Cas do.

Castiel’s a goddamn master of both the sour and sweet. Dean’s always known about the former, but is only just learning about the latter. Turns out that Cas fucks like he kills; with utter abandon and a keen interest in the owned human being’s experience. Being possessed by Castiel is a religious experience and Dean never wants to stop being his victim. 

Rutting like animals, barely an inch between their sweat-slick bodies, Cas’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, thick weight of his dick in Dean’s ass, and it’s absolutely  _ everything _ . Skin sliding against skin, Castiel’s flawless body pressed against and  _ into _ Dean’s like he’s trying to leave a permanent impression of himself behind, all barely contained strength and sadistic intent. 

Dean can’t breathe for the swell of satisfaction buzzing just under the surface of his skin, mini static shocks as Castiel nails his prostate with unerring accuracy. 

“Cas--” Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

Fuck, he’s gonna come on nothing but Cas’ dick and the nasty grind of his pelvis, as Cas hauls Dean’s body against his with all that grave-digging strength, Dean’s knees slip-sliding over the comforter, cheap motel plywood headboard carving out Castiel’s sexual prowess on the wall, and Dean’s got no fucking chance against this onslaught, no fucking chance against Cas. 

Shuddering and panting on trembling hands and knees, Dean tries again, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, unrelenting heat of Castiel all over him, inside and out, “Cas, please. Please.” He’s not entirely sure what he’s begging for, but making sure it’s wholehearted either way.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Castiel grits out, hard length of his cock driving in, twist of his hips on every back stroke in a way that drags infuriatingly against Dean’s insides, mauling more bloodrich bruises into Dean’s hipbones - temporary imprint of DNA, a tourist's souvenir. “Please, what? What do you want, Dean?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer, but can’t because there’s a low moan in his throat that escapes first as Castiel fucks him harder and faster, wet slap of their skin drowning out Dean’s hopeless little pants along with any chance of him being able to answer coherently. All he can focus on is the hard drag of Cas’s cock pushing pushing pushing all the way up inside, fat head slamming that sweet spot time and again. It’s perfect and dirty and everything that Dean always knew that he wanted, but didn’t think he’d ever get to have. 

“ _ Cas _ ,”

Castiel makes a low noise in his throat, each violent thrust of his hips growing more and more urgent and less and less consistent, filthy-hot grind as he fucks Dean with a couple more uneven thrusts, and a low, desperate, “ _ Dean _ ,” before he’s coming hot and thick inside Dean, and despite Dean’s valiant attempt to get a hand on his drooling dick, all it takes for his orgasm to hit is his name ground out in Castiel’s voice and then he’s coming, white heat and liquid warmth painting the comforter below, devastating in its intensity. 

He collapses on shaky knees with Castiel’s weight on his back, pressing him down into the bed and the wet, sticky patch. Dean’s face is mostly buried in the scratchy pillow, but that’s okay because he’s not sure he can breathe actual air right now anyway. 

Castiel’s hips rock lazily back and forth as they come down, mouthing at Dean’s shoulder, little nips of teeth, soothing with his tongue. 

It’s a pleasant sensation, quiet and blissful, and Dean is content to exist like this until Castiel is slipping softly out of him and off of him, sweat-stick release of their cooling bodies, and Dean groans softly. Before he can put up more of an active protest and/or move to get cleaned up before he starts dripping and then crusting... _ ugh _ , Cas is there, thick forefinger pressing his come back into Dean’s body and if Dean didn’t doubt his ability to ever get hard again, he totally would be right now. 

Castiel makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, “The Highway Butcher?”

Dean makes a muffled assenting noise into the pillow. Castiel pushes his finger inside Dean’s tender hole up to the first knuckle. 

“It’s pretty grammatically ambiguous, I would say.” Castiel muses quietly, voice and tone completely devoid of any indication as to what his right hand is doing. “I mean, do you butcher highways or what?”

Yep. Dean’s in love.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Dean is 22 when he first meets the Reaper. Cas is 28, Sam is 18. This happens in the flashbacks in _now you're just a stranger with all of my secrets_. Their second meeting is in this fic _monsters are always hungry, darling_.
> 
> Cas and Dean spend four years together (more to be written about this!) Sam’s about to be interviewed by a prestigious law school - as per the SPN pilot - when Cas goes away for robbery. So when Dean comes for Sam at college, Dean is 26, Sam is 22, Cas is 32. Cas goes to prison in _i say i want you inside me and you split me open with a knife_. Dean comes for Sam at college in _the stone inside you still hasn't hit rock bottom_.
> 
> When Cas appears in _i want to ki__ you_ , the present day parts of _now you're just a stranger with all of my secrets_ , and _you swallow my heart and flee, but i want it back now, baby_ he’s 37, Dean’s 31 and Sam is 27.


End file.
